


Roses Are Red

by Dessert_Maniac



Category: Mahou Shoujo Madoka Magika | Puella Magi Madoka Magica
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Alternate Universe - Non-Magical, Didn't Know They Were Dating, F/F
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-31
Updated: 2015-12-31
Packaged: 2018-05-10 13:26:26
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,965
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5587636
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dessert_Maniac/pseuds/Dessert_Maniac
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Homura has some concerns regarding her heart; her doctor figures out that she's really just in love, and so gives Homura dating advice. Of course, Homura doesn't quite realize that it's dating advice, but it works out for her in the end.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Roses Are Red

**Author's Note:**

> This idea was from an Imagine post on randommadokaau on tumblr... way long ago. I've been working on/off on this since midsummer, so I'm glad to have finally finished it, even if I haven't gotten very far on chapter 11 of "Mayn't Change the World."

### Roses Are Red

That day had started well enough.

First thing in the morning—after breakfast, of course—she had gone through her meditation exercises, which had been pleasantly free of frustration, and afterwards she had had enough time to complete an essay. Then she had gone to a nearby café, where she met up with Madoka; that had gone very well indeed.

Lunch came and went, and she invited Madoka over to her apartment. Madoka had agreed; thus they had ended up watching movies the rest of the afternoon.

Indeed, _most_ of the day had gone well. It had not been until late in the evening that things went… bad.

She had picked out a psychological horror film, though by her standards it was not a very scary movie, and Madoka had weathered through gorier films. Somehow, however, _Nightwalker_ was frightening enough to have Madoka clinging to her side.

“Wahhh,” Madoka had whimpered, “why did you have to pick this one, Homura?” She buried her head into Homura’s shoulder.

Her heart began to beat faster. It did not let up all throughout the movie—it had gotten _worse_ as the night progressed, and when Madoka left in her car, she had had an almost hollow sensation in her chest.

::: –,–`–,{@ :::

And so she finds herself here, in the waiting room of the local clinic.

No one is in line at the front desk, and the receptionist is talking to someone on the phone while entering information on the computer, so she jots down her name and slips into an empty seat without interruptions.

There are two uncrossed names ahead of hers, which means she will be here a while; unfortunately, “a while” is a vague indicator of time, but for her health she must see this through.

It is seven minutes to eleven. The man across her is reading a magazine and the couple sitting by the entrance are in their own little world.

Her left hand has gotten hot and sweaty around her cell; she wipes it on her handkerchief and then spends a minute folding the handkerchief.

“Shinji Matou?” a nurse calls from the door, pen poised above the clipboard.

The man tosses his magazine on the table, sneering, “Finally! What’s a fellow have to do to get decent service, hm?”

At this early hour—it being the beginning of summer and most of her acquaintances being college students—she has no unread messages, nor has Madoka sent her anything, but she spends a few minutes checking all her emails and her social media regardless.

Once she has exhausted those (which frankly does not take long at all), she contents herself with rereading old conversations between herself and Madoka.

“Ai Mikami?” the nurse calls at 11:04; it is the couple’s turn.

That leaves only her in the waiting room. She puts away her phone and takes a look at the selection of magazines the clinic has scattered about; she tidies the ones closest to her before choosing one to read.

Halfway through an article on the merits of kale, Shinji Matou leaves and the nurse summons her: “Homura Akemi?”

She puts the magazine in its place before following the nurse down a narrow corridor.

“Dr. Xiao Long will be with you shortly, Miss Akemi,” the nurse says as he flits about the tight cubicle. He does not see Homura’s nod and leaves without another word, which is fine by her.

Situated to the left of the door, the clock reads a quarter past eleven. With nothing better to do, she watches the second hand throughout its revolution—then a second revolution, a third, and a fourth. After the fifth, she draws her gaze away from the clock.

Instead, she glances around the room. Above the tiny desk is a shelf full of encyclopedias; she wonders if Madoka has her own medicinal compilation, or if it is something purely decorative. Surely Madoka would not waste time and money on them if the latter were the case.

Madoka is very reasonable: her budgeting skills rival Homura’s own, and—

“We meet again, Miss Akemi!”

Jerking towards the doctor, Homura yelps, “D-doctor!” She coughs and amends, “Good m-morning, Dr. Xiao Long,” but Dr. Xiao Long waves a hand dismissively.

The other hand plucks Homura’s patient folder from the box on the door. She reads it as she says, “Relax, Miss Akemi! It’s a beautiful day out, all of my patients so far have been cooperative, Dr. Belladonna complimented my tie, and now I get to help my favorite young lady!” A sly wink punctuates the last word.

Feeling her face redden, Homura mumbles, “I don’t come here _that_ often, doctor.”

“My memory and your record beg to differ,” Dr. Xiao Long counters lightly. “Now, speaking of record, it says here that you’ve been experiencing heart palpitations?”

Homura frowns, nodding.

“Can you describe in more detail the symptoms? And how long this has been going on, or when it began, if you remember,” the doctor asks, settling into the chair at the desk.

“Well…”

::: –,–`–,{@ :::

She had been late to class that day, since the power at her apartment complex had gone out sometime in the night, and so _of course_ her stress levels had been elevated beyond normal.

But the pain had only surfaced when she had inadvertently crashed into another student, sending books and papers flying and bruising her knee in the process. That was probably what made her anger spike; her heart was already beating erratically from having run all the way across campus, so it was no wonder her head and chest began to ache.

“Oh, I’m so sorry!” the other person said, sprawled on the floor and cradling their elbow.

Taking a deep breath, she answered, “It’s fine.” She set about gathering her things as quickly as possible, trying her best to calm down and _not have a panic attack because she was **half an hour late** to lecture_. At the time, it hadn’t really worked.

“H-here, you missed a few.” The person held out a few crumpled papers towards her, pink pigtails bobbing up and down with the person’s movement.

Grabbing her things, she grumbled, “Thank you,” before dashing off again despite her knee and lungs’ plea to slow down.

The pain had been rather dull in that instance, subsiding a few minutes later, and thus she had brushed aside any concerns that might have crossed her mind.

::: –,–`–,{@ :::

“Hm,” Dr. Xiao Long taps her pen against her lips, “and when was this, exactly?”

“About a month ago, in late May. The quarter was coming to an end—I thought it was the stress of that….”

While Homura speaks, Dr. Xiao Long’s pen zips across her notepad, and she nods every few words. “What of other times, over the course of that month? Did it happen more than once a week? Anything in particular that might have caused you unusual stress even after the tardy?”

Furrowing her brow in thought, Homura takes a moment to respond, “I think it is rather sporadic… as far as I can tell there is no pattern…. I actually felt confident in my classes this quarter, and my final results correlated that…. The only incident that stands out is that particular day that I was late to class—I met Madoka that day, though she is the exact opposite of a stressful person.”

She twitches when Dr. Xiao Long claps her hands; the doctor’s intense expression has Homura frowning warily.

“The good news,” that means there will be bad news, too, “is that we caught this early on!”

For a moment, Dr. Xiao Long grins a little too widely, making Homura shrink back.

“Doctor…?”

Leaning forward, Dr. Xiao Long says, “Please, tell me more about that day. There might be something we… missed.”

Leaning back, Homura takes a moment to gather her thoughts.

::: –,–`–,{@ :::

When class had let out, she stopped one of the students nearby her to ask about what the professor had gone over in the first half hour. They let her take a picture of their notes, saying that for the most part it was a review of where they had left off the previous lesson.

Thanking them, she skimmed through the notes, confirming what they had said.

She felt better about being late; with a midterm coming up, she had been worried that the professor would cover a new topic that would be on it and she would miss it. With that not being the case, she set out for the library to do some studying before her next class.

But she did not get very far.

Just outside the lecture hall, someone stepped into her path, forcing her to stop or else have a repeat of that morning’s fiasco.

“U-um, hello,” the person said—the exact same person from that morning, if those pink pigtails were any indicator.

“Oh. Hello.” She wondered if the person expected an apology.

Fidgeting with her hands, the person blurted out, “I’m Madoka!”

“…Okay.” She hoped this would not take too long.

Madoka seemed put out by her short response, so she ventured to say, “I am Homura.” And then, to forestall any complaints, she added, “I am sorry about this morning. I was late to class.”

Waving her hands hastily, Madoka said, “Oh, no, it’s okay! I figured as much when I saw you enter the lecture hall, so—so I waited out here, because I don’t have class, and I wanted to make sure you were okay. I mean, on account of your knee—I saw you were limping, which worried me, and… and that’s all.” She deflated, her face reddening remarkably.

At the reminder of her knee’s bruising, Homura grimaced.

“I can take you to the nurse… if you want…?” Madoka evidently saw the wince.

“No, it’s fine,” Homura snapped.

Clasping her hands, Madoka nodded. “Then, let me make it up to you! There’s a really nice coffee shop nearby—or we could get anything else you want, of course. Just, please let me do this for you!” she insisted, surprisingly not deterred by the harsh tone.

Homura was about to decline, but something about Madoka’s hopeful face made her say yes.

Brightening up, Madoka asked, “T-then, when and where do you want to go?”

“…Coffee sounds good,” Homura shrugged, looking away, “right now, if you wish. I have a couple of hours free.”

“Yay!”

From the corner of her eye, she could see Madoka beam up at her. “Lead the way, then,” she gestured vaguely.

Later—she felt her heart beat faster, though she was quite certain it was the caffeine.

::: –,–`–,{@ :::

Subsequent incidents were more or less along the same lines: she would be at a dinner out with Madoka, or at the school cafeteria, or even at her apartment, and her heart would begin to palpitate out of the blue.

The most recent occurrence had been just yesterday, when she was in the middle of dinner with Madoka. They had gotten a reservation at one of the nicer restaurants in town to celebrate their good grades for the quarter, and she had been enjoying herself thoroughly—not even her dietary restrictions or her social anxiety could have dampened her mood.

“Mm, dessert!” Madoka clapped her hands when their waiter arrived with a large ice cream sundae. Looking across at Homura, she wheedled, “You know, I can’t possibly finish this all by myself… it’d sure be nice if I had someone to help me out.”

Rolling her eyes, Homura replied, “Is that a not-so-subtle request for me? Besides, I am quite certain that you _can_ finish it all yourself.”

“Pretty please?”

Although she made a show of resisting, she gave in nonetheless; it would not hurt her to indulge just once. Between the two of them, the ice cream sundae disappeared slowly but steadily—of course, Madoka took the greater share, for she had a sweet tooth a mile wide.

Then Madoka giggled, pointing at Homura’s face with her spoon.

Brushing her fingers along her check, she found that she had a smudge of ice cream and chocolate sauce there. She took a napkin to wipe it off, shaking her head at Madoka’s continuing giggles.

Madoka sighed, then, resting her head on her palm.

“Do I have something else on my face?” Homura dabbed at her other cheek, to be sure.

“No,” Madoka smiled. “I was just thinking of how cute you are.”

It was shortly afterwards that her heart acted up _yet again_. A quickening of her heartbeat, then peculiar flutters that became a dull, throbbing pain. She had to excuse herself shortly afterwards.

::: –,–`–,{@ :::

“…that is all, I think.”

Blinking, Dr. Xiao Long coughs into her fist and says, “Right—from the sounds it, you haven’t, hmm, _messed up_ yet, so let’s see…. Prescribed course of action! Follow my every instruction and you’re sure to get laid!”

Homura echoes, “Laid?” Perhaps Madoka would know this medical term.

“I mean, better! You’re sure to feel significantly better, Miss Akemi, though at first it might not appear to do anything,” the doctor reassures her. “Ready? I’ll write this down, don’t worry.”

“A-alright…,” Homura nods, clasping her hands and straightening her back.

“Excellent!” Again, Dr. Xiao Long takes a moment to indulge in whatever strange thoughts doctors have. Roughly thirty seconds later, she starts listing things on her fingers.

“First, when you take your friend out to dinner—you’ve got the right idea, going out to a nicer place. Going in the evening is especially great, because you’ve got all this _atmosphere_ of a candle-lit night but with less pressure!

“Eat whatever you want that’s in your list of approved foods, but pay attention to what _she_ has; you never know when that kind of information might come in handy. For dessert, _sharing_ is _totally_ the way to go! Try to sit next to each other, though, so that you don’t have to drape yourself over the table to reach her, heheh.

“If your heart starts acting up, don’t immediately end your night out. Relax—it’s very important to be relaxed!—and _talk_ to your friend. Talking over a meal has been shown to reduce stress levels, especially if they’re someone near and dear; chase away negative thoughts, and you just might find that by remaining calm and happy, your heart will settle down.

“But, if you feel like the pain is above a four on a scale of one to ten, with ten being _awful, life-threatening_ pain, then do feel free to go back home. Just… remember that your health doesn’t always have to _dictate_ your life. Maybe your friend would like to have a sleepover, a quiet night in a safe environment.

“Or, if your date—hmm, if your night out isn’t interrupted and it ends well, then you can save the sleepover for another day! It’s always good to have a little variety in your life so that you don’t feel trapped.

“Now, conversation is the most important part of the whole shebang! You have to keep her interested, obviously, but don’t be _fake_ , y’know? If you find yourself not knowing what to talk about, asking about _her_ interests is a pretty good bet; then you can listen to her and be less pressured to come up with filler conversation. Talk about your classes, your own interests, dreams, things you’d like to do someday, your stance on political questions—heck, the sky’s the limit!

“Also, make sure to dress to impress! Nice shirts, nice pants, stuff you feel _good_ in.”

Homura feels out of breath simply listening to Dr. Xiao Long’s long-winded instructions, though they do not sound anything like the instructions she has had from previous doctors. Is Dr. Xiao Long experimenting in the so-called New Age techniques? Madoka will probably know.

Though, she has a sneaking suspicion that she is missing something.

“Got that, Miss Akemi? Oh, and give her flowers! Roses are great, but do watch out because they come in all sorts of colors—other flowers are good, too. Variety keeps it from getting dull, y’know?” Dr. Xiao Long beams, her hands extended in some sort of gesticulation.

Homura can only nod, but she clarifies, “S-so, ah, I should… ease my nerves? This is stress-induced, nothing—nothing serious?” She has no idea what to make of the flower thing (or anything _else_ for the matter), so she leaves that alone.

Eyes shining, the doctor says, “Well, I’m going to have to perform some tests to rule out possibilities of the life-threatening variety, but your records indicate that at your last cardiovascular check-up everything was going smoothly, so my first diagnosis is to say that yes, you are under some stress that has manifested physically. Hopefully it’ll all go well!”

Then, she jots down something and rips off her notes with a flourish, handing them to Homura.

“Any other concerns, Miss Akemi?” Dr. Xiao Long asks, her expression indicating that she thinks they have resolved the matter at hand.

“I don’t think so…,” Homura replies; she holds the papers by the pads of her fingers at a distance from her body as her brain attempts to puzzle out if she _should_ have questions or not.

Except, it looks like the _entire session_ is an enormous question mark in her mind; how is she supposed to phrase that into a proper query…?

Nodding, Dr. Xiao Long leaps to her feet. “Then, I think that is all for today! On your way out, ask the secretary to schedule a follow-up for this week at the tech’s office, just for our peace of mind,” she instructs on her way to the door.

“Yes, doctor.”

“For the record,” Dr. Xiao Long adds just before she leaves, “I think your friend _hearts_ you back.”

Left alone, Homura repeats, “‘Hearts’?”

::: –,–`–,{@ :::

She is still thinking about it when she arrives home.

As she peels and then eats an orange, she ruminates over the strange words of Dr. Xiao Long. The visit was decidedly less _medical_ and more… something along the lines of… some sort of advice; that much she gathers, but honestly the fast pace of the doctor’s words had her struggling to keep up in the first place.

Perhaps the notes will enlighten her.

Oddly enough, the first paper appears to be a list of restaurants—at least, she assumes so because she recognizes a couple of names. The second page contains titles of popular movies, and the third simply lists out…quotes…? Page four had doodles of flowers, rectangles with arrows labeling them as confectionary boxes; page five is a synopsis in bullet points of everything else the doctor had said aloud. Finally, the last page gives her a line of encouragement, with no other explanation.

Well, then. It looks like Dr. Xiao Long can write _really fast_ and multitask.

She is still confused.

 _Beep-beep_ , her cell’s alarm tells her she has ten minutes until Madoka arrives; she straightens up the papers, leaving them on her desk, then she straightens out her appearance, as well. She will have to think about the peculiar instructions later.

Right at two o’clock the doorbell rings, for Madoka is, thankfully, as timely as Homura is.

“Good afternoon, Homura!” Madoka greets with a delighted grin. The bags in her hands rustle as she lowers her arm.

Stepping aside and taking one of the grocery bags, Homura returns, “Welcome, Madoka.” She waits for Madoka to take off her shoes, and then continues to the kitchen.

Once she sets down her share of the bags, Madoka stretches her arms up to the ceiling, sighing.

Homura coughs and says, “If you feel tense, you should stretch your neck muscles, as well.”

“Good thinking, Homura! It _was_ a rather tiring walk. Speaking of that—watch out for the blueberries; I brought them frozen, so they probably melted on the way here,” Madoka mentions, rolling her neck back.

Homura blinks, snapping her head away from Madoka. “R-right—we should—should do that. Unpack the groceries.” She starts pulling out items from the bag closest to her. Though at first she piles them haphazardly on the table, she doubles back to arrange everything instead of continuing.

Madoka, however, has already taken care of the second bag, and so she empties the third while Homura sorts everything out.

“Eep, yeah, they definitely thawed.” Madoka grimaces as she pulls her hand away, covered in condensation.

Lips quirked in a smile, Homura murmurs, “Well, that is less time we have to wait.”

Clapping her hands together, Madoka gushes, “Which means less time in between now and dessert time! Alright!” She takes out her phone, continuing, “Mami recommended this really easy blueberry crumb cake to start with—she said that even we can’t mess it up!”

“Is that a backhanded compliment?” Homura grumbles; Madoka shrugs sheepishly. “Well,” Homura sighs, “Of the two of us, I trust you more with baking, so I will work on lunch.”

Again, Madoka claps her hands and nods eagerly, and Homura has to tear herself away from staring at Madoka’s dimples for too long.

They set to work.

Homura discovers within the next five minutes that, even though she is working at the table and Madoka at the counter, the kitchenette is not ideal for preparing two courses at once. She bumps into Madoka while setting a pot of water on the stove just as the other girl reaches out to preheat the oven.

Flour smeared against her shirt is proof of that inconvenience.

“Oops, sorry, Homura! Let me get a napkin for you, just wait a bit,” Madoka says, moving to wash her hands.

“No, no, it’s fine,” Homura replies. She frowns down at her shirt, mumbling, “I don’t know how I forgot to wear an apron.” A pounding in her chest starts up and her cheeks burn.

Her breathing hitches.

“Here, Homura.” Madoka brushes Homura’s shirt with a paper towel; just as Homura keeps telling herself, it is easily dusted off. “It’s okay, it’s okay, Homura,” she soothes.

Biting the inside of her cheek, Homura grits out, “I’m going to—to check on something.” She flees the kitchen.

She spares a thought to Madoka and their abandoned meal, but her _panic over her panic_ weighs more heavily on her. She will apologize later.

In the seclusion of her room, she slides down until she rests on the floor, against the door.

Deep, audible breaths fill the silence. She goes through several breathing techniques until she feels sane enough to rationalize her fears.

Padding to her bedside table, she looks over the sheaf of notes Dr. Xiao Long had given her.

There, scrawled on the last page, is a single sentence: _“Be brave and take a chance_.”

Of course, the other papers are peppered with reassurances that she does not have to do anything that makes her uncomfortable, but the overall advice hedges at putting herself out of her comfort zone. Whatever the doctor is trying to tell her, she is sure at least that it will require a lot of willpower from her.

“I can do this,” she mumbles. Her fingers run through her hair and she straightens her shoulders. “I _can_ be brave.”

Though, frankly, she is not sure why this involves bravery….

::: –,–`–,{@ :::

“…and I panicked because I thought this was one of those professors who lock the entrances once lecture starts, which is really mean of them, by the way, but when I ran to the other door it opened and I had to sit in the very back row but I didn’t mind at all! I was just _so_ happy that I was only five minutes late and I wasn’t locked out _and_ the lecture hadn’t gone really far yet.”

When Madoka finally pauses, Homura takes the opportunity to pass her a glass of water. Lips twitching, she admonishes, “Please breathe.”

Red floods Madoka’s chubby cheeks and Homura has to grab her own glass so that she does not squeeze the life out of Madoka’s face—she has always liked cute things like kittens and bunnies and stuffed animals and so on, but she has not really payed enough attention to people to notice that they, too, can be cute.

Until now, apparently.

“Sorry,” Madoka takes a sip, shrugging sheepishly, “It’s that I get so wound up about school, you know?”

“You did so well this quarter; I am certain that you will continue to persevere in next quarter’s classes. With a drive like yours, how could you not?”

Madoka sighs, agreeing, “Of course I do my best. I want to graduate and get my certification, and then I’ll be able to help people! It’s been my dream since I was the nurse’s assistant back in middle school—except that was mostly just escorting people to the nurse’s office and tidying up some, heh. But my brain likes to make me doubt myself….”

“Even a traitorous mind could not hold you back,” Homura is adamant in her support of Madoka. “And, eventually, it will learn to believe in you. To believe in itself.”

Seizing her hand, Madoka declares, “And you, too! You need to believe in yourself, Homura. I know the OCD and the social anxiety get you down, but—but you gave me a chance, right? And you gave Mami a chance, and even Sayaka, even though you two don’t really get along! That’s bravery, Homura.”

Bravery, eh?

With Madoka being so earnest, it is difficult for Homura to do anything other than agree; Madoka has a point, in any case. She can acknowledge that.

It is with this courage in mind—and a particular bit of advice from the doctor’s notes—that she remarks, “You look especially nice in that outfit, Madoka. That new sweater goes well with the shirt.” Though, inwardly she cringes at the pathetic elaboration and at _nice_ and at the blatant change of topic.

Doesn’t she have other, _better_ , _smoother_ compliments than that? Why did her brain and mouth decide to get all tangled up _now_?

“You noticed! I’m glad,” Madoka squeals, looking disproportionally pleased. “I like your headband today; it’s such a pretty shade of purple!”

Okay. So it wasn’t so bad. She even got a compliment in return.

Keeping her head down so that Madoka does not see the blush on her cheeks, Homura murmurs, “Thank you,” and takes a bite of food to occupy her traitorous mouth.

Madoka giggles; it makes Homura want to melt.

::: –,–`–,{@ :::

It is near the end of their Friday movie night when, sighing rather forlornly, Madoka says, “Sayaka and Hitomi broke up— _again_ , and I’m worried that it’s for the last time….”

Homura, from her spot on the couch, replies, “If they are not compatible, then it is best they separate now.” Despite her words, she pulls out her cell phone; scrolling through her contacts (which is, admittedly, a short list), she finds Sayaka Miki’s name. “Sayaka Miki, however, is as tenacious as they come.”

Madoka leans back, tilting her head to peer at what Homura is typing out:

_‘Buy her flowers. Put some effort into talking with her.’_

“Dating advice?” Madoka points out incredulously.

“Well, if she will not give up, then she might as well go about it a better way, rather than being a bull in a china shop and a headache all around,” Homura grouses, though she glances away from Madoka’s shining eyes.

Then, it hits her. “Did you say, ‘dating advice’?” she asks, her mind already going over what she had _thought_ were instructions to get better—but evidently are not. She finds it almost, but not quite, concerning that her first response to Sayaka Miki’s relationship problems was to give her _medical advice—_ which is _actually **dating** advice_.

Some part of brain must have been in on the loop; it would have been nice if that part of her brain had told the _rest_ of her, sparing her many long hours puzzling over the bizarre set of instructions.

“Yes…?”

Curiosity rolling off of Madoka in waves, Homura decides to push her conundrum aside—it is a matter for the next doctor’s appointment.

(If she gives it any more thought, she will start _screaming in utter mortification_.)

“Right—sorry. My thoughts are a little scrambled… I must be falling asleep,” she tries to deflect.

“Oh, then I should probably go, huh?” Madoka says, collecting their plates from earlier as she stands up. “I don’t want to keep you up.”

Homura scrambles to her feet, hands reaching out and managing to catch Madoka’s forearm. “P-please—why don’t you… stay the night?” Her heart is racing.

At Madoka’s startled expression, she adds, “It is rather late, after all; it would not be fair of me to make you brave the buses at this hour. A-and! It would… it would save you the trip—tomorrow, that is to say.”

Madoka’s free hand comes up, patting Homura’s fingers on her arm. Her smile tells Homura that yes, yes she will stay the night.

Relieved, yet simultaneously anxious now that her blurted-out question has landed her into an entirely different slew of problems, Homura retracts her hand. She lets Madoka continue cleaning up, since she has to take a few moments to regulate her breathing.

“Hey,” Madoka’s voice and touch to Homura’s elbow make her twitch, but she is beginning to feel excited.

“Hello,” she replies, feeling a smile tug at her lips.

In return, Madoka laughs; it is enough to get Homura’s body to relax, to let her immerse herself in this new adventure.

“Do you want the futon or the bed?” Homura asks, casting a critical gaze over her living room to ensure that everything is neat and tidy and orderly and every other synonym of _immaculate_ (or else it will haunt her just before she falls asleep).

“The futon is fine, thank you.”

Of course, she begins to panic when they enter her bedroom; her heart skips a beat and her palms sweat and it takes her a moment to remember that she has to set out the sheets and pillows and blankets because of course Madoka will not sleep on _just_ the futon.

What an absurd thought—does she _want_ Madoka to catch a cold? Of course not.

Luckily, her peculiar train of thought brings her focus back, so she is not left floundering in the doorway beside Madoka for more than about five seconds.

“Pink sheets?” Madoka’s eyes light up when she sees the aforementioned sheets. After all, most of what Homura owns is in lavenders, blacks, and whites.

She shrugs; “It was a two-for-the-price-of-one sale, and I did not like the other options.” Her point is proven when she pulls out two pairs of pajamas—one white with black polka dots, and the other a plain, soft purple.

“You need more color in your life, Homura,” Madoka declares upon taking the monochromatic pair. “One of these days I’ll drag you to the mall with me and we’ll get you… hm… some sweaters! And scarves, and maybe some socks, too. That way, you can easily add a dash of color to whatever outfit you wear.” She looks quite proud of herself.

Finished with the bedding, Homura turns back to Madoka, complaining, “But I like my color scheme….”

“Just a little bit, pretty please?” Madoka wheedles in that familiar tone and with that familiar pout.

Turning away, Homura mumbles out a barely audible agreement; nonetheless, it is clear enough for Madoka to squeal and begin babbling about a future shopping date.

She tries to forget about her pounding heart—and it is surprisingly easy, she realizes when she blinks and finds that she blanked out for a minute; Madoka is still talking about what colors will suit Homura best.

As if Madoka’s entrance into Homura’s life has not _already_ brought her more color—she is pretty certain that she has never blushed more in her entire life.

“Hold your horses,” Homura interrupts, smiling fondly. “Let us plan that tomorrow, when I can pay attention for more than a few seconds instead of dozing off in the middle of things.”

“Oh! Right!”

Madoka takes her pajamas to change in the bathroom, while Homura changes as quickly as possible in her bedroom.

It is, surprisingly, not awkward at all when they settle into their respective beds for the night. Homura offers Madoka a penguin plush as a substitute, which Madoka gladly accepts, squeezing it tightly as she crawls into bed on her stomach. Homura dims the light until it is little more than a night light, and then slips under her covers with her own stuffed animals. Madoka’s breathing has already evened out; she is probably half-asleep now, despite having been so energetic just a few minutes ago.

“Good night, Madoka,” she whispers, curling around her stuffed animals.

It takes a moment, but when Madoka mumbles back, “G’night, Homu…,” it makes Homura smile softly.

She falls asleep easily.

::: –,–`–,{@ :::

When she wakes up in the morning, it is 6:12. Madoka remains asleep.

Homura props herself up on her elbow to look at Madoka, tangled up in the sheets, face pressed against the pillow, Mr. Penguin tucked under one arm, and pink hair hopelessly mussed.

Something in her chest clenches, and her breath catches in her throat.

Realizing that she is not going to sleep any longer, Homura eases out of bed; she tiptoes around her room, getting herself ready for another day of staying in with Madoka—another nice shirt, a loose pair of pants, soft socks.

Just as the doctor ordered (the question of _why_ nags at her, but she has not gone wrong so far, so she must be doing _something_ right).

Then, she creeps out of the room.

Madoka’s deep breathing stays steady.

She might as well do something productive while she waits for Madoka to wake up; besides, she has yet to properly make it up to Madoka for abandoning their meal the other day.

It is Saturday, she has had roughly six hours of sleep, and she feels as if she could do anything.

And that energy and attitude serve her quite well when she braves the kitchen all by herself.

“Homura?”

That is where Madoka finds her, an hour and seven minutes later, hunched over a pan with an intensity that could rival her stare downs in her debate classes.

“Hm.”

“Are you making pancakes?” Madoka glances at the pan, but her attention is immediately drawn towards the towering stack of pancakes on the side. “Um… that’s _a lot_ of pancakes, Homura.”

Homura makes a dismissive gesture with her hand, still intent on the pancake in the middle of cooking. “The first few are not good,” she murmurs, spatula poised to flip the pancake.

Bringing another plate over to divide the stack, Madoka questions, “Oh, is this your first time making pancakes? I wouldn’t have thought so, since these top ones look really good! They’re so fluffy, mmm.”

“Thank you,” Homura replies, placing yet another pancake on one of the stacks. She moves to pour more batter into the pan, but Madoka stops her.

“I’m pretty sure that’s enough, Homura….”

“…I still have batter left….”

Noticing what Homura is referring to, Madoka yelps, “That’s a lot of batter, Homura! Maybe… just refrigerate it… we can’t possibly finish all of it by ourselves today.”

Homura extinguishes the flame, ducking her head a little so that Madoka does not see the embarrassed blush on her face (next time she will follow the recipe’s proportions).

::: –,–`–,{@ :::

Dating advice, Homura contemplates a few days later.

Everything she has done so far has been tied to _dating_. But why?

She stands outside the flower shop, wondering what it is that still eludes her in this puzzle: dating advice for a heart complaint… there is a missing link, and it frustrates her that she does not understand.

Caught up in her thoughts, she begins to turn away—but a carnation bouquet in the display catches her eye.

Pink, the soft color of Madoka’s hair; red, the bright highlight of Madoka’s ribbons; and little sprigs of white, the solid block of Madoka’s lab coat when she comes straight from the lab to Homura’s apartment in a breathless rush to tell Homura _everything_ that she did that day.

On a whim, she buys it.

The florist asks her if she wants to write anything on the card; she declines. The florist winks at her and wishes her good luck.

Questioning the florist’s behavior but not curious or courageous enough to ask, Homura leaves the flower shop with a bouquet clutched in her hands.

It reminds her of Madoka—so she will give it to Madoka.

Did Dr. Xiao Long not say that flowers are important? Especially flowers other than roses, to keep things from getting “dull,” whatever that means.

In fact, in the spirit of keeping things lively, her feet make an abrupt turn towards Madoka’s apartment.

Strange that she has not been there often; they usually convene at Homura’s apartment. She is grateful for the courtesy Madoka shows her, but she knows that it is not entirely fair to Madoka.

Kind, thoughtful Madoka.

Once again, she stops outside. She simply stands there, in front of Madoka’s apartment building, waiting.

Waiting for a smidgeon more of courage to propel her forward.

“Fancy seeing you here,” Sayaka Miki remarks, appearing before Homura with her hands stuffed in her pockets but her stance relaxed.

“…Hello.”

Sayaka gestures at the bouquet, “Those for Madoka?”

Homura shrugs.

“She’ll like them. She likes anything pink, you know. Anyway,” Sayaka’s tone shifts to something more… grudging, but serious, “thank you for the advice, barebones as it was. Hitomi and I made up—I was just visiting Madoka, actually, to tell her that Hitomi’s finally gonna introduce me formally to her parents. So. Thanks, and good luck with yours.” Sayaka shrugs, smiles faintly, and leaves Homura standing there.

Well. Good for Sayaka Miki and Hitomi Shizuki; she wishes she knew what the final piece of the puzzle was.

Up the stairs to the second floor, ringing the doorbell, Madoka’s delighted gasp—and she has no answer to her conundrum.

Madoka takes the carnations from her, saying, “Please, make yourself at home! Let me just find a vase for these cuties; I’ll be right back.”

Homura glances around Madoka’s apartment to reacclimatize herself. She is not sure when she was last here. Sometime before finals, perhaps, because she does not remember Madoka having that large of a cacti collection.

She takes a seat at the couch, smiling at the kitten cartoons on the pillow sleeves.

Then Madoka comes in, carrying the vase. “Hm, where should I put them….”

“Your cacti could use the company,” Homura offers.

Nodding, Madoka places the vase in the midst of her cacti terrariums, rearranging a few to make it more aesthetically pleasing.

“There!” she declares. She takes a seat next to Homura, wondering, “What made you bring me flowers, though? I thought you were going to spend the day reading, since it’s been so hot this week.”

A touch absently, Homura murmurs, “Is it? I had not noticed.” And she had not, truthfully; her thoughts had blocked out most of the real world.

“I passed by a flower shop… I suppose the colors caught my eye, so I bought it for you,” she says, shifting a little closer to the arm of the couch.

“Oh.”

Madoka’s cheeks are bright red as she stands up to face Homura directly.

“Madoka?”

“Homura!” she shouts, and her fists clench and her eyes shine and she declares, “Roses are red, violets are blue, sugar is sweet, and so are you!”

Homura gapes at her. She squeaks, “A—a c-confession?” Somehow her thoughts give her that, but for the life of her she does not know what to do with this.

In a gentler voice, Madoka reaffirms, “I love you, Homura, and—and I think you love me, too.” Her chin juts out as she says that, probably to try to draw attention away from her fidgeting hands. She adds, “I mean, if I’ve been reading things right… and that bouquet you just gave me, and basically all the dates we’ve gone on, and—well, yeah.”

Her heart pounds and her hands grow sweaty and her mouth dry and the warmth that wells up in her is almost pain—

Oh.

That explains why Dr. Xiao Long gave her _dating advice_ (it is still a ludicrous thought).

“This is love,” she breathes. Her wide eyes stare back at Madoka's blazing ones. 

“I love you,” Homura says, and then she repeats it, just to test it again, to feel its reality. “I love you. I've loved you since we met. I—I _love_ you, Madoka!”

Madoka laughs and pulls Homura into an embrace.

Face squished against Madoka's chest, Homura continues, “I thought it was my heart, because it hurt and I could not focus—could not focus and I felt… sick? A strange sensation would well up in my chest, akin to a balloon on the brink of popping. I tried to wait it out, then I saw a doctor, and now… here we are….”

Warm hands stroke her hair as Madoka anchors Homura.

“Here we are, Homura.”

“…Madoka.”

“Yes?” Madoka settles into Homura’s lap, grinning at her.

Their faces are level. Madoka’s breath just barely brushes her lips.

Once again, Homura feels her face burn. She forges forward, “If we are here, Madoka… then, where are we going?”

Tilting her head, Madoka searches her face for something. For reassurance? If so, she should look elsewhere, for Homura can only just comprehend the magnitude of their revelation. Besides: with how fragile their burgeoning relationship is, Homura does not want to be the one to ruin it.

Madoka smiles, and Homura’s breath catches in her throat.

“Are you scared, Homura?” she asks, pulling back to look her in the eyes.

“Yes—but it’s okay if it’s with you,” Homura quietly admits. It is the truth.

Madoka’s answering smile is worth any and all discomfort, Homura decides right then and there—actually, she decided it when she first met Madoka; it is only _now_ that she realizes it.

Love at first sight, eh?

Idly twirling a lock of Homura’s hair around her finger, Madoka confesses, “I was so nervous, that day we crashed into each other; I kind of thought I was half out of my mind for deciding to wait outside your lecture hall. That was—so, _so_ out of character for me—and then you were so grumpy! You didn’t even ask me if I was okay.”

At Madoka’s pouting pause, Homura shrugs sheepishly. “It slipped my mind. I’m sorry,” she mumbles.

“Eh, I don’t mind know. I know that’s how Homura is, and that she cares a lot even if she doesn’t say it, though I do think Homura is getting better at expressing herself,” Madoka pokes Homura teasingly, “and, you know, I’m getting better, too. You make me realize that I can be a lot more than I am right now.”

Homura squirms, for she cannot possibly take any credit for the person Madoka is, but—“You are welcome.” She says it with a smirk.

In her mind, she is shouting, ‘Ha! Take that! I _can_ be smooth!’

Madoka laughs, then grumbles, “Gosh, could you _be_ anymore arrogant?”

Adopting a bashful air (which is not at all difficult), Homura pouts up at Madoka.

“Stop that,” Madoka mock-scolds, “it’s illegal to be so cute.”

“…is what I think whenever _you_ pout and turn your doe-eyes on me,” Homura retorts. “But I endure it because—because I love you.” She meant to say it as a joke, but she turns serious at the end; she does not think the novelty of her newfound love will wear off any time soon.

“Does that make us… girlfriends?” Madoka blushes, but she looks so, _so_ hopeful.

Of course Homura has only one reply to that: “Yes.”

It makes Madoka nearly squeeze the life out of Homura with a tight embrace. Pulling back, Madoka assures her, “We’ll go _really_ slow. Itty-bitty baby steps. I don’t want to make your heart implode anytime soon.”

Well, if Madoka continues being so gosh darn _adorable_ , her heart might implode anyway.

“Okay.” Honestly, Homura feels relieved at that; she had the exact same worry, though it is, perhaps, an irrational one.

Then, she sighs happily. “Girlfriends,” she reiterates, tightening her arms around Madoka.

“I’m so happy, Homura.”

“So am I, Madoka.”

“But, Homura,” Madoka pulls back, “if you didn’t know what you were feeling… then… how did you know what to do…? I mean, we were on _totally_ different pages, here, even if it turned out alright in the end.”

Now _there_ is a question she does not want to answer.

::: –,–`–,{@ :::

“Dr. Xiao Long,” she greets when the doctor comes into the examination room.

“Miss Akemi! Long time no see—I was feeling lonely!” Dr. Xiao Long admonishes her, once again perusing Homura’s medical file.

But, not letting herself be distracted, Homura states, “You gave me _dating advice_ , doctor.”

Chortling, Dr. Xiao Long looks at her then. “So you figured it out, eh? How’d it go? ‘course, nothing could’ve gone wrong—I give the _best_ dating advice _ever_!”

There is no point in scolding the good doctor, since there really was nothing wrong with her heart, and it all ended well… so…

“We are… dating,” Homura admits. She can feel her ears burn, but she smiles because Madoka always brings a smile to her face. She adds, “I suppose I should… thank you…. Thank you, Dr. Xiao Long—but, I have questions!”

Grinning, Dr. Xiao Long nods eagerly, motioning for her to go on.

With all that went on, she never got around to asking Madoka the questions that she had had after the first doctor’s visit a month ago, and she is glad that she did not. Here, with the doctor, she can get credible answers without absolute mortification (other than the fact that her _doctor_ helped her get a girlfriend).

“What did you mean when you said, ‘I think your friend _hearts_ you back’?”

“Ah! Well, ‘hearts’ is another way of saying ‘loves.’ You know, from the heart symbol that you see on t-shirts and stuff.” Dr. Xiao Long makes a heart symbol with her hands.

Now that makes so much more sense now, if a bit embarrassing (again, because of the fact that this is _her doctor_ ).

“What does ‘laid’ mean?”

Eyebrows shooting up, Dr. Xiao Long asks, “You seriously don’t know that one? Wow. Well, it’s a colloquialism for sexual intercourse.”

Face now decidedly red and burning, Homura looks up to the ceiling. “Thank you,” she manages to grit out, speaking to the ceiling. “Those were the only questions I had.”

“Great! Well, let’s get on with your physical, since it looks like you’re not going to answer any of _my_ questions, heheh.”

“Please give me _actual medical advice_ this time, doctor.”

“…We’ll see about that!”

As the doctor goes about the physical examination, however, another question occurs to Homura.

“Doctor?” she asks when Dr. Xiao Long pauses to jot down a few notes.

“Hm?”

“How did you know…?”

Dr. Xiao Long understands, replying nonchalantly, “It was written all over your face! You blushed, got that faraway look in your eyes, _and_ you were careful about what you said, though you smiled so _tenderly_ —the whole nine yards, my friend!”

“…I see.”

That is all that needs to be said, for she does indeed _see_.

 _‘Roses are red, violets are blue, sugar is sweet, and so are you_ ’ says it all; such a straightforward, almost childish, confession has opened her eyes.

“Ha! That right there! That is _exactly_ what I’m talking about!”

::: –,–`–,{@ ::: **_fin_** ::: –,–`–,{@ :::

**Author's Note:**

> Please review! All sorts of feedback are welcome and earn my eternal gratitude.


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